


There’s no Rivalry without Respect

by SambliongPalpatine



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-05-31 16:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15123623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SambliongPalpatine/pseuds/SambliongPalpatine
Summary: Cris comforting Leo, and himself, after their respective losses.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Okay, couple of things: I don’t normally write RP fanfics but this was asked of me by someone special so. It probably sucks so I’m sorry.  
> I know Argentina and Portugal played in different cities but just pretend they did play in the same city.  
> Sorry about mistakes, wrote this on my pbone jnstead of sleeping.  
> Smut was asked of me but I chose not to write it (might write another chapter with smut if the crowd demands).  
> Okay, that’s about it I think so enjoy!  
> Comments and/or kudos are welcomed!

Cristiano throws another pillow against the wall and plops back onto the bed. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck 

How could he be this stupid? He should have fought until he- but damn if those charruas weren’t playing their best football. And he didn’t play his best football and fuck this is-was- probably his last chance to win a World Cup and he screwed it with fucking tiny Uruguay. Fuck, fuck, fuck!  
   
He scrubs his hands over his face with a bit more force than necessary and tries to will the tears away.   
   
Luckily, or not, a knock interrupts his sulking though he is seriously considering ignoring it. But whomever was knocking wouldn’t give the fuck up so he sighs and goes to open the door,,, to find none other than the Argentinian Sergio Agüero, if he remembers correctly.   
   
“What do you want?” he asks harsher than the other deserves but he doesn’t care.   
   
The other raises an eyebrow unimpressed and mutters something in spanish. “Please come see Leo,” it seems as if he’s making a physical effort to be polite.  
   
Cristiano folds his arms and leans against the threshold. “Why?”  
   
Agüero huffs. “You know how he gets when losing. Just go and see him.”  
   
Ronaldo rolls his eyes. “I just lost too, for your information.”  
   
The other smiles as wide as it is fake. “Even better, that will cheer him up,” Cris is about to slam the door on his face when the other speaks again, soft and conciliatory. “Just forget your wounded ego and go see him, Ronaldo,” and he gives him a keycard. “I’ll be elsewhere. “  
   
Cristiano takes the card and lets the door fall shut and stands there staring at the card as if it were an unidentified object he’s never seen before.   
   
Leo and him have been trying this... sort-of-maybe-not-so-relationship for a while. Who would have thought that the little Argentinian would grow on him. But he did because that’s Leo; awkward and shy at first but he’s like all soft and amazing and he does know how to talk and he is even funny once you get to know him. And Cristiano loves cuddling with him, he’d do it all the time if he could. Leo’s been there for him through a lot and now he needs Cris to be there for him and that’s the least he can do so he groans and gets out of the room.   
   
He’s forgotten his shoes but he isn’t going back for them now. He is about to knock when he remembers the card so he opens the door carefully.   
   
The television is on, a spanish-spoken channel about sports. Cristiano walks towards the sound but finds no one in front of the screen. He stops to listen to what they are saying and anger boils inside him. Why compare Leo to Maradona? They just say he’s better because he won a World Cup and Leo hasn’t. Cristiano grunts and turns it off forcefully.   
   
He looks around but sees no Leo anywhere, the only light on is the one coming from the lamp on the nightstand. “Leo?” he asks but receives no answer.   
   
He’s starting to worry until he hears water running so he walks towards the bathroom. The shower’s on, probably has been for a while and Leo is curled on a corner soaking through his clothes and hair plastered against his face. Cris’ heart breaks at the sight. He moves closer and turns the water off, then he grabs a towel and steps inside. He crouches in front of the man and wraps it around him.  
   
Leo seems to be elsewhere so Cris just picks him up and sits him on the closed lid of the toilet to dry him and change his clothes. “Leo? It’s me, Cris,” he speaks gently. “Your friend Sergio asked me to come see you, I hope you don’t mind.”  
   
Leo shakes his head slowly as if he were in a daze. “Why are you here?” he asks in a small voice.  
   
Cristiano frowns and stops rubbing Leo’s hair. “Your friend said-“  
   
Leo interrupts him, head lowered. “Yes but why?”   
   
Cristiano sighs and removes Leo’s soaked shirt, wrapping him in the towel when goosebumps started to appear. “Because I care about you, obviously,” he answers.   
   
Leo snorts. “Really Cris,” he glances up at him. “You’ve never really showed you care.”  
   
Cris feels as if he’d been slapped. “Is that what you really think?”   
   
Leo doesn’t answer, he just glances back down.   
   
Cris sighs and takes Leo’s wet shorts off. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I? The day I also lost my match and possibly my last chance to win a World Cup, too. I’m here, taking care of you because your friend said you needed me. And yet you say I don’t care.”  
   
Leo starts shaking and Cris can’t see him like this so he stands up and picks Leo up bridal-style, still wrapped in the towel, and carries him to the bed. He pulls the covers away to gently place Leo on the mattress, throws the towel into a chair and takes his jeans off so he can climb into the bed alongside the other man.   
   
Cris brings the covers up over the both of them and then gathers Leo into his arms, the smaller man goes willingly. “You’re an idiot, Leo. An idiot because after everything you still believe I don’t care when actually I care more than I should,” he whispers against Leo’s hair.  
   
Leo stays silent for some time, Cris caresses his back idly and kisses his forehead. He knows himself and he knows why would anyone think he doesn’t care but it’s not like that with Leo and he had hoped the other man had seen that. Clearly he hadn’t and that doesn’t help to improve Cris’ mood.   
   
“Do you remember,” he starts, in a last attempt at making Leo see reason, “how when we started this I stopped celebrating in front of you every time we beat your team in Clásicos? Or how do I always send you texts when you win to congratulate you or I don’t give you shit for kicking our asses? Have you forgotten the times I stayed with you when you were sick and took care of you?” he mutters, lips pressed against Leo’s temple. “Or how I’ve stood up for you against my teammates so they would stop mocking you? Would I really do all those things if I didn’t care about you, Leo?”  
   
“No,” a small voice says. “I just feel so alone, like an utter failure. I’ve let my country down, again. I failed a fucking penalty against fucking Iceland , nearly lost against Nigeria only to have France kick us out of the competition. I should’ve stayed out.” Leo says against Cris’ skin.   
   
“Maybe, but you didn’t. And you didn’t because you care, Leo. Because you care about your country and they’re idiots for not seeing that.” Cris answers fervently.   
   
Leo pulls away until he is able to see Cris in the eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says and forces himself to hold Cris’ gaze. “Sorry for not seeing you care after everything we’ve been through. Sorry for not knowing better, despite having to know better.”  
   
Cris gives him a smile. He is about to speak when Leo interrupts him.  
   
“I wish the press didn’t make us compete, didn’t make us into the rivals everybody now thinks we are when we clearly aren’t. Why can’t they just appreciate us, every one of us, for our skills and achievements?” he says sadly.   
   
Cris gives him a sympathetic look and touches his cheek softly. “Because that’s what they live for. And we can either play their game or prove them wrong. Prove we don’t have to be rivals to be good. But,” he pauses, thinking about other great rivalries in the sports’ world. “You can’t be rivals with someone you don’t admire and respect and I do admire and respect you, Leo. So I’d gladly continue to be your rival.”  
   
They stare at each other for long moments in silence and Cris has the gnawing feeling he’s said too much until Leo leans closer and kisses him. He wraps an arm around Cris’ waist and moves even closer to him.   
   
“I’m sorry you lost,” he says honestly. “But I’m also glad we sort of had the same outcome.”  
   
“You are saying you’re happy I lost, Messi?” Cris tries to sound indignant but he fails miserably.   
   
“Only because I lost, too, Ronaldo.” Leo says and presses another kiss to his lips.   
   
“You are so competitive,” Cris replies.   
   
“I’m glad you’re here.” Leo admits in a low voice.   
   
“I’m always here,” Cris answers and kisses him again. 

 

 

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moments between Luka and Ivan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is-chronologically- the third chapter of the fic. But after today I thought it might do some of you some good, cheer you up. I’m really sad about Croatia’s loss but we gotta focus on the positive: THEY PLAYED A WC FINAL!! And they won all our hearts and support, yes, those might not be a golden Cup but they still have it. They’ve made history, this boys and I think that is a great victory in its own.

Luka shuts the door with more force than necessary. He was exhausted; emotionally, physically, spiritually, but he couldn’t go to bed because, ironically, he was too wired up to sleep. There’s a tenseness in his muscles that he knows wouldn’t let him rest even if he tried.  
He slams a fist into the door and rests his head against it.

“Captain?”  
He jumps a little, not expecting his roomate to be here.

“I thought you’d be with the others,” he says, trying to get his heartbeat to slow down.

“They offered but I wasn’t feeling like it.”

He sounds so close to him now, Luka swallows thickly.

“You have a girlfriend, Ivan,” he says, shakier than he wished.

Said man chuckles amused. “Um, no. I actually don’t.”

He lifts his head from the door but doesn’t turn around. “You’ve been going out with her for the past few months, don’t tell me that’s not having a girlfriend,” he says, annoyed.

“No, can’t we just be friends?” exasperation seeps through his calm tone.

Luka turns around but remains against the door. “Can we not do this? We have to focus on the final we have coming, I rather not do this now.”

Ivan sighs. “I’ve been trying to get you to do this for years, captain. But you always use the same excuse. I’m tired of letting time go by and let football keep a bridge between us.”

Luka looks up at him, at his honest and open expression, his bright eyes and damn if he doesn’t want to just say yes.

“This is professional football, Ivan. We don’t have the same freedom other people have,” he tries to reason with him.

His friend walks closer to him, he is so tall and in this moment Luka feels smaller than he already is.

“Why should we tie love with the rules of public life? We might not have the freedom to show the world who we love but that doesn’t mean we aren’t free to love who we love and to show them, don’t you think?” he raises an eyebrow, waiting.

Luka looks at him and thinks about Messi and Ronaldo, about Neymar and Philippe, Sergio and Iker, about the fencer and her girlfriend and about other sports people who have managed to keep their relationships throughout the years, through thick and thin and honestly, if they can why can’t he? Because God knows how much he wants this with Rakitić.

He sees him still standing there, determination wavering somewhat and he decides that it’s been enough, you can’t swim against the current forever, you can only deny your feelings for so long. So he steps away from the door and closes the distance between them a little.

“It won’t be easy,” he whispers.

His Number 7 scoffs. “Nothing ever is. I mean, look how hard it was for us to get here, to a World Cup’s final. And we still did it, despite all the doubts of others, our own, despite our injuries and near fallouts the past games. And yet here we are; we beat Denmark, we beat Russia and God, we beat England. I feel like We can beat France, as long as we continue to fight with our hearts and souls and skills. And if we can do that, if we did all that, we can do this. Besides,” he pauses and regards him seriously. “Why would I want easy? I want you and, easy or not, it’s worth trying.”

That does it. That makes Luka’s defenses crumble down and before he could think about it he launches himself into Ivan. He barely manages to catch him, wrapping his arms around him tightly, Luka doing the same with his legs around his waist.

“Ivan,” he whispers. “I- I do want to try this.”

The other man chuckles. 

“Good,” he breathes out before leaning in and kissing him passionately.

It’s easy for him to carry Luka back to the bed; what with his short stature a deceiving fragility, and lays him down on the mattress carefully despite their urgency. Luka pulls his shirt up and waits for Ivan to lean back so he can take it off completely. And even when he’s seen Rakitić naked many times before, he can’t help but marvel at how strong and lean his body is.

“You like what you see?” Ivan asks against his collarbone.

“Obviously,” he bucks his hips up to reinforce this.  
Ivan hums, pleased with the effect he has on him. 

“Good, we’ll get to that later. But first,” he tugs at the hem of Luka’s shirt, making him laugh and sit up so his Number 7 can rid him of the garment.

He ogles Luka unashamedly for a second before pushing him back down.

“You like what you see?” Luka asks in mock imitation of Ivan’s previous words.

“Obviously,” he answers, thrusting his hips a little against Luka’s.

They both moan at the contact, the friction delicious despite the fabric between them. 

That’s not enough, not now, so they pull apart and divest each other from their remaining garments. The contact is even better with no clothes on; they thrust against each other, moaning and groaning until Luka stops him and pushes a bottle of lube into his hand.

“No condom?” Ivan asks with a curious look while he kneels between his legs.

Luka shrugs. “It’s not as if I can get pregnant, can I?” he smirks when Rakitić nearly chokes. “Besides, I trust you.”

Ivan leans down and kisses him chastely. He uncaps the bottle and pours some of the liquid onto his fingers and trails them up the inside of Luka’s thigh, making him shiver.

He circles his entrance and introduces his finger slowly, giving Luka time to adjust, it’s been a long time after all. When he has relaxed enough, Ivan introduces a second finger and starts scissoring them and exploring for that sweet spot.

Luka’s eyes roll back and he cries out in pleasure, he has almost forgotten how good this feels. This, that’s more than a random fuck, more than just sex with a friend. Because this is not just a friend, this is Ivan Rakitić, his number 7 and there is no other person he rather do this with.

“Ivan...” he moans. The other man has now three fingers inside him, brushing his prostate mercilessly. “If you do- don’t stop I’m-“ he pants, “going to finish before...”

There’s no need for him to finish the sentence for Ivan to understand what he’s trying to say. He withdraws his fingers, earning a whimper from Luka.

“Are you sure? If it hurts you tell me,” the man says seriously.

Luka can only manage a nod; he’s still panting, his hair is all over the place and sweat beads trickling down his body. And Ivan in all his disheveled glory, is staring at him as if he were the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.   
Maybe that’s what love is, after all.

Ivan slicks himself and takes his position between Luka’s legs and very slowly starts to inch inside of him.

Luka shuts his eyes tightly and his breaths come shallower. He had forgotten the pain it involves.

“Breathe. You know the pain will pass,” Ivan whispers in his ear, caressing his cheek gently and places soft kisses on his neck.

Little by little, as he starts hreathing calmly again, the burning sensation gives way to pleasure and he can wrap his legs around Ivan’s back more comfortably. “Move, Ivan,” he commands.

The other man chuckles. “Yes, captain,” he says, amused but complying anyway.

He starts with slow, shallow thrusts and Luka doesn’t complain. Making love languorously with this man is all he wants for now, they can explore the alternatives later. Ivan changes the angle of his hips so every time he thrusts he brushes Luka’s prostate so he sees stars non-stop. They kiss passionately, harshly even, conveying in each and every kiss all the emotions they’ve been bottling for years.

And then something dreadful happens: Luka starts crying. He quickly covers his face with a hand, embarrassed at the sudden burst of emotion. Ivan notices anyway.

“Hey, are you alright?” he asks with concern.

He nods. “Yes,” his voice cracks a little. “It’s just- I never thought we could have this,” he sobs, a little mortified.

“We can.” Ivan kisses the tears away softly; this is all very overwhelming, a moment ago he wasn’t even considering the possibility of acting on his feelings and now.... now he couldn’t imagine not having done so. He wraps his arms around Ivan’s neck, palms splayed on his back, and pulls him closer towards him.  
   
Afterwards they are lying in silence, recovering from their orgasms. Luka’s head is resting on Ivan’s chest.

“So,” Ivan is the first to break the silence, “who do you think will win tomorrow?” he asks, a hand trailing idly up and down Luka’s arm.

“Hmm,” he replies sleepily. “Belgium,” he says confidently.

Ivan huffs a laugh. “Why?”

Luka lifts a shoulder , a half-shrug. “They are amazing, that Hazard guy has a lot of potential.”

“Yeah, that’s why your club is buying him,” the other man says matter-of-factly.

They laps into silence again, a comfortable one where there is no need for any one of them to break it.

“What are we going to do now, Ivan?” he asks under his breath as if he doesn’t really wants Ivan to hear him.

He does anyway and before answering he presses a kiss against his forehead. “Together we can do anything we set ourselves to do. Ronaldo and Messi have done it for years. Madrid and Barcelona aren’t that far,” he pauses and rolls them both so they can look at each other. “I’ll do anything as long as you are there with me, captain,” he states firmly.

“Number 7,” he mutters before leaning in and kissing him.

—

Someone knocks on the door and it’s still too damn early for anyone to be knocking on the door.

Luka groans and carefully sneaks from underneath Ivan’s arm. He grabs the first shirt he finds on the floor- it’s too big on him so it must be Rakitić’s- and goes open the door.

There is no one there and he’s about to shut the door, grumbling, when he notices the package on the floor. He bends down to pick it up and is surprised when it’s heavier than it looked.

“Who’s it?” a gruffy, sleepy voice asks from the inside.

“No one,” he answers, closing the door. “Someone just left a package.”

He leaves it on the table and opens it: inside there is a trophy; a golden small statue of a person in fencing attire holding a sword.

Oh.

Oh.

“Oh my God,” he exclaims, not being able to take his eyes off it.

“Wha’?” his partner asks in midst ot a yawn. “What’s that?” he points at the trophy.

“A trophy,” he deadpans.

“Really,” Ivan says sarcastically. “No kidding,” he sighs. “I mean, where did it come from?”

“That welsh fencer you are obsessed with, of course.”

Ivan squeals. “What?! Why would she send you her trophy?” he exclaims excitedly.

“I don’t know but this isn’t just any trophy; it’s the third one from her third and last World Cup,” he says dazedly.

“Look, there’s a letter!” Ivan holds an envelope in front of his face that he hadn’t noticed because he has had his eyes glued to the golden figurine the whole time.

“Well? Read it!” he urges the man.

Rakitić takes the paper out and unfolded quicker than a blink.

“It reads,” he starts.

 

Hello! As you can see, I’ve fulfilled my goal. Despite all the doubts and critics, the odds and bets against me and I still won.

You must be thinking ‘why the hell did she send me her last World Cup trophy’? Answer’s easy, to be honest;  
I want you, Luka Modrić, to have this as a reminder that all the things you fight for, despite doubts, critics and all that shit, can be achieved. All. Of. Them. 

Now, I’m gonna sit here and bet you a libra that Belgium will kick rose arses today just as you’ll kick french croissants tomorrow.

Ps. Tell that Rakitić I admire him even more for having played with a fever.  
Goodbye for now, Luka Modrić ,may the odds be ever at your favor (;

A. S.

 

They stare at the letter, then at each other and then at the letter again.

“Wow,” they say at the same time.

“Three makes the charm, ey?” Ivan mumbles, stunned.

Luka walks closer to him and wraps his arms around his waist. “Apparently so.”

Ivan wraps his arm around Luka’s shoulders and smiles brightly.

 

•••

It wasn’t enough. Their fighting wasn’t enough. France had done it; not even playing that good, if you rule out the goals France made because of Croatia’s mistakes, they made the same goals they did: two. Beautiful goals, those two, without a doubt. But how they hurt.

He dreads the next part; to see the french celebrating and happy, he knows this is unfair of him but well, losing a final like this hurts. Specially when you don’t know if it’d be your last.

He goes through it in auto-pilot, hugging teammates and shaking people’s hands, the president being there all supportive and trying to cheer them but still he can’t find it in himself to smile. He sees Rakitić smiling faintly, being the cheery and positive guy he was, a guy who played a semi having overcome a fever the night before.

It starts to rain. Pretty accurate, as if Moscow shared their sorrow. They don’t mind it though, the rain. Players are used to getting wet while on the field. Still he can’t see the hour to just go back to the hotel and lick his wounds in peace, away from all the festive french mode.

When he finally gets to the hotel, Luka plops face down onto his bed. They lost the World Cup, in a way, but is the one that hurts. The pain of losing overpowers the pride of having achieved what they achieved: playing a World Cup final. He sighs and turns his head, he stares at the trophy his fencer friend had sent him and he feels like crying again.

“Not all dreams come true,” he thinks, sadly.

“Yes, they do,” someone says, making him jump for not having heard him come in and just realizing he had said that out loud. 

Ivan places his abandoned Ballon D’Or next to the fencing one and smiles.

He rolls to lay on his side as Ivan sits beside him and cards his hand gently through Luka’s hair.

“But we lost,” he says softly.

Ivan sighs, sadness clear on his expression. “Yes, we did. And yet we didn’t.”

When he gives the man a confused look, Rakitić winks and gives him a small but real smile. “We reached a World Cup’s final. For the first time in our history and we fought till the very end, even playing one extra game. Now for me that’s winning,” he leans down and kisses him on the top of his head.

Luka pulls at him and Ivan lays next to him, embracing him tightly. Luka snuggles deep into the embrace, taking comfort in the warmth radiating from him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against Rakitić’s shirt.

“What for?” he whispers back.

“Failing,” he answers.

Ivan chuckles softly. “You didn’t fail, captain, don’t talk like that. Besides, if you failed then we all failed. And do you think we failed?” Ivan says seriously.

Luka shakes his head. “Of course not! You all played so well..”

Ivan snorts. “We, you included, played our best.”

They laps into silence, a bit lighter.

“I feel like a failure,” he admits.

“Don’t be silly,” his partner whispers. “You can never be a failure.”

Luka smiles, pain still clutches at his heart but it feels a bit less having Ivan here. “I love you,” he mutters without thinking.

Ivan takes a deep breath and Luka braces himself, heart skipping a beat at waiting for the response.  
“I love you too, captain,” he mutters back.

The deception, frustration and sadness will stay with him for a while, he knows that with time he’ll be able to recognize this as a victory, they are heroes and his smile widens a little. He stares at the trophy on the nightstand again and his heart soars. 

Some dreams- the best ones- do come true, after all.

 

*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is. The end, my fellow fans. Never thought I’d enjoy writting a RPF but I did. Might do it again sometime if I get a good prompt, always wanted to write a 5 + 1 fanfic but never gotten any ideas. 
> 
> Anyway; couple of things:  
> The OFC that appears in the plane is not a self-insert, I promise; I am not a fencer, I am not Welsh, sadly and I am not a woman. I just thought that for plot interests, it’d be useful.  
> I’m sorry about errors, I’m nearly blind (trully) and tried my best and well keep doing so in order to fix them. If anyone would like/want to be my beta, please say so.  
> And for now, enjoy!

Leo sighs, he hates airports: what with all the people looming around and having to wait a long time for a flight, not to mention all in a language he couldn’t dream to understand. Besides, he is so exhausted he could totally fall asleep while leaning against a pilar.   
   
“You’re not going back to Argentina, then?” Kun asks, he has dark circles under his eyes and his skin looks a little ashen, defeat hit them all hard.   
   
Leo shakes his head and pulls his hoodie tighter around him. “No, what for? I rather go home.”  
   
Kun gives him a look. “But Argentina is your home.”  
   
Leo shakes his head again. “What has Argentina given me besides criticism? Barcelona has given me a home and a career,” he gives his friend a sideways glance. “I’m sorry.”  
   
It’s Kun’s turn to shake his head. “Don’t apologize, Leo,” he sighs and hugs his friend tightly. “Take care, okay? And rest,” he kisses Leo on the temple and then goes find his gate.   
   
Leo sighs for what seems the umpteenth time and goes take a seat.   
   
He’s still not over the fact they lost. He’d known France was a strong team with skilled footballers and his team... well. They weren’t at their best and he wasn’t, either. It seems that with Argentina he never is.   
   
“Excuse me,” a painfully familiar voice interrupts his self-loathing thoughts, “may I sit here?”   
   
Leo nods once without even turning to look at the man. “Why are you here? Do you want to give the press a field day?”  
   
Cris snorts. “As if they haven’t had one already. Besides, this is an airport, you know. And it’s not as if I want to stay here a minute longer,” he says with disdain.   
   
Leo can relate with that. “Yes but, why this airport?” he says through gritted teeth.  
   
Cris shrugs, he looks so relaxed, as if he weren’t concerned about people realizing. “Only airport that has flights to Spain today.”  
   
Leo’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re not going home in Portugal?”  
   
Cris hisses. “Jesus no, why would I do that? I mean, Portugal is the last place I want to be right now,” he sounds sad and longing but above all, he sounds tired.   
   
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he says absentmindedly.   
   
“And you, Leo? You going back to Argentina?” Cris asks, turning to look at him.   
   
Leo shakes his head vigorously. “God no, I’m also flying to Spain.”  
   
Cris fakes surprise. “Why, I thought you wanted to be with your family.”  
   
He scoffs. “Yeah, right. Because I’m looking forward to hear how big a disappointment I am,” he shivers just thinking about it.   
   
Cris remains silent for a moment, Leo stares at him from under his hood expectantly. He releases a breath and finally asks. “Would you want to stay with me for a couple of days?”  
   
Leo is surprised by the offer but not because he doesn’t want to be with Cris. He worries his lower lip while he thinks about it. “Okay,” he says softly.   
   
Cris smiles brightly.   
   
•••  
   
Luka is in his seat, waiting for the airplane to take off. His teamates had left two hours before but there had been some confusion with his boarding pass so he had to wait. At least the airline had given him a business-class ticket, which is nice of them, as compensation.   
   
Someone throws a bag beside him and a person sits down. He turns around and sees a woman buckling her seatbelt.   
   
“Um...” he says as a greeting.   
   
She smiles at him and waves. “Hi,” she says, her voice is nice, with a cute little accent.   
   
“Hi. I’m sorry, I thought no one was going to sit here,” he smiles apologetically.   
   
She shrugs. “Yeah, this was unexpected for me, too. But apparently someone canceled so,” she shrugs again.   
   
He nods and turns to look outside the window, with a sidelong look he notices she’s missing the second finger of her right hand. He knows who she is and he is excited to be sitting next to her but he dosn’t want to show it because the least he wants is for the flight ahead of them to be... awkward.   
   
“Wow,” he says when he sees her fencing equipment. “You’re a fencer?” he plays dumb.   
   
She nods. “Yeah, that’s why I’m here. I came to the International Competition and the final is at Moscow.”  
   
He smiles. “That’s nice, really. My... final is there, too.”  
   
She has a knowing glint in her eyes. “Really? Well, that’s nice.”  
   
He nods. “Can I ask you something? Without sounding prying. We don’t know each other, after all,” he says, smiling a little.   
   
She nods.   
   
“What happened to your finger?”  
   
“Hmm?” she seems to just remember her missing finger. “Oh,” she looks down at her hand and laughs self-consciously. “A fencing accident. I’m sorry, they made me take my prothesis off and I forgot to put it back on.”  
   
Luka shakes his head. “No, no. It’s fine, I just- I don’t mind it, it was just... curiosity,” he mutters under his breath.   
   
She laughs. “It’s okay, I don’t mind talking about it. Well, it happened five years ago. I was practicing with a Dutch guy who is also a great fencer and at some point he lost his bearings and, well...”  
   
He looks at her horrified. He knew this story but hearing it come out from her mouth makes it more... real. “Oh, the media made it sound more... dramatic.”  
   
She shrugs, seemingly not catching the fact he just admitted to knowing the story already. “That’s what they do, innit?”  
   
He nods. “Sadly, yeah,”   
   
She scoffs. “I mean, they said it was revenge because I had defeated him at the final the previous year, that he didn’t even pay the hospital, can you believe?” she shakes her head, clearly bothered. “This is, he totally paid the hospital, he even bought the prothesis and gave a press conference to basically say ‘fuck you media,’” she laughs fondly. “They love inventing stories, don’t they?” and she gives him this weird look, as if she knew something about him...   
   
So before this can move into dangerous waters, he asks another question. “So, why did you choose fencing as your career?”  
   
She sighs wistfully. “Well, first of it isn’t my career. I do it because I love it but it’s not a career, I’m an engineer,” she shrugs. “My grandfather from my father’s side was a fencer and my dad kept his swords. He had them on display, hanging on the wall and every few months he would bring them down to polish them, he said. One of those times, I must have been five or six years, he got distracted so I sneaked behind him and grabbed an epée,” she makes a pause to take some air, he awaits intrigued for her to go on. “My dad saw my holding the sword and instead of panicking he was awed because he said I held it so perfectly, as if I knew fencing already,” she laughs fondly. Then she remembers Luka and continues talking. “So I asked them for fencing lessons. My mother wasn’t happy but my dad was the one who paid so she couldn’t say anything.”  
   
Luka humms. “But you could have chosen any other sport, no?”  
   
She gives him a funny look, as if saying ‘I already explained this’ but she sighs and answers. “I’ve always been an adrenaline rookie. I did try football and tennis but they didn’t fulfill my craving. Fencing does,” she now has this tone of voice, as if implying she’s telling him a secret (which he likes, actually) “I even wanted to be a Formula 1 driver.”  
   
Now this he wasn’t expecting at all. “What? Are you serious?” he asks, a bit awestruck.   
   
She laughs and nods. “Yeah, can you believe? But there my mother totally refused. I didn’t listen and asked one of my friends’ dads. who works with drivers, and he told me I was born in the wrong body. As if women couldn’t drive fast cars as men did. Anyway, proved them all wrong when I was seventeen and started racing motorcycles.”  
   
She stops and looks outside the window. Luka is amazed by this woman, who he does know who she is but has been faking he didn’t so this wouldn’t be awkward. This facet of her life though... he wants to know more. So he asks.   
   
“Wow, and did your parents find out?  
   
She snorts. “Yes, but until I was twenty-two so they couldn’t say anything. I was pretty good at it, if I can say so myself,” she says with melancholy.   
   
“Why did you stop, then?”  
   
She shrugs, she does this a lot. “An accident that funnily didn’t have anything to do with racing and also because of school.”  
   
Subconsciously, maybe, she looks down at her left leg (she’s wearing capris so Luka can see the inside) where she has a tattoo surrounding a long, jagged scar.   
   
“I remember reading about it,” he comments, absentmindedly.   
   
When she raises an eyebrow at him, he realizes that he just admitted to knowing her.   
   
She looks at him incredulously. “Oh, so you do know about me?”   
   
He nods. “Well: yes. Your accident was all over the news, you know? You are after all a professional fencer and you had to keep off fencing due to your recovery. Besides,” he shrugs, “a welsh friend of mine is obsessed with you. As well as some of my... colleagues.”  
   
She gives him a knowing look. “Really now?”  
   
He nods. “Really; a while ago he showed me videos of your competitions. You are pretty amazing,” he smiles. “And some of my colleagues went to your final last year,” he remembers Ivan and Charlie talking about it non-stop, he should ask her for an autograph for them.   
   
She looks at him a bit surprised. “Well,” she clears her throat. “That’s- that’s- wow.”  
   
He laughs. “Also, you were on tv recently, in some english show where they interviewed you. My friend was watching it so I joined him,” he pauses, considering his next words carefully. “I think it’s pretty amazing, you talking about your sexuality so openly.”   
   
She raises an eyebrow. “Well thank you. But of course I was going to do that, you know? I couldn’t lie about who I am and who I love.”  
   
He lowers his gaze for a moment and then brings it back up and looks at her face. “But weren’t you worried how that would affect your career?”  
   
She shakes her head vigorously. “No, not really. I mean, when you love someone it’s worth gambling everything else to be with the person you love, don’t you think?”  
   
“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully.   
   
“You love football  
that much, huh?” she asks with no judgement in her voice.   
   
Luka stares at her with wide eyes.   
   
“What?” she says with a knowing wink. “You thought I didn’t know who you are?”  
   
“Well, no.”  
   
She laughs. “Of course I know who you are! I might not enjoy playing football but I do like watching it.”  
   
He feels himself blushing. “Oh.”  
   
“I think you are pretty amazing, too by the way,” she says.   
   
“Thanks,” he whispers.   
   
They laps into silence for a moment until she takes a deep breath and speaks again. “Look, what I said in that interview... it’s not that I’m shaming people in the sports industry or just people on the public eye in general, I don’t judge some people’s decision to remain private about their sexuality and stuff. I just want the media and sponsors or whomever it is at the top of the pyramid to understand that who we are, who we love, doesn’t affect our skill, what we do and how we do it. I mean, do you think I should be taken less seriously as a fencer, that I don’t fence as well, just because I have a girlfriend?” she looks at him inquisitively, expectantly.   
   
He meditates over this for a while and finally shakes his head. “No, of course not.”  
   
She gives him a triumphant grin. “There you go. I don’t expect for people to start screaming from the rooftops they’re gay or who are they in love with. It’s enough with them accepting themselves and fighting for the person they love, doesn’t have to be made public, I don’t have to know about it either. I just want to leave my grain of sand.”  
   
He sighs. “Yeah, you are on the right way.”  
   
She pushes her seat back and gets comfortable. “You think? Well, I’m glad. I’m not gonna be doing this much longer, anyway.”  
   
He raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”  
   
She turns her head around and gives him a small grin. “If I win the Olympics in two years that’d be it, I’d be achieving my goals.”  
   
“Ah, your third Olympics.”  
   
She nods. “Yep, three of each, for me that’s enough mate. I’ll be 30, time for other adventures.”  
   
“What about the racing?”  
   
She huffs. “I still race sometimes, nothing like before though. Might start racing more often, even if my girlfriend threatens to leave me,” she says.   
   
“I wish I had your... determination,” he says quietly.   
   
She gives him a curious look. “As if you needed it. You’re an amazing footballer, I mean, look at you and all you have achieved. You didn’t give up, despite being rejected because your height, you went for it and got what you wanted.”  
   
“Yeah but only professionally, not personally. You should see my personal life,” he chuckles self-consciously.   
   
   
She chuckles softly. “Do you want to see mine?”  
   
They laugh a little, light and relaxed and finally his tiredness takes him deep into sleep.   
   
“Luka...”  
   
He opened his eyes and there he was; the man he had secretly loved since they met.   
   
“Did you know that Ronaldo is dating Messi?” he asked and stared at Luka expectantly.   
   
Luka nodded. “Yes,” he offered no further explanation.   
   
His friend raised an eyebrow. “How?”  
   
He shrugged. “I play with Cris, you know?”  
   
The other man’s eyes light with realization. “Right, of course.”  
   
Luka went back to the e-mail he’d been trying to write until his companion interrupted him again.   
   
“Wouldn’t you want to have that?” he speaked so quietly that Luka wasn’t sure he heard correctly.   
   
“What?” he asked just to be sure.   
   
The other sighed. “Wouldn’t you want to have what Leo has with Ronaldo?”  
   
Luka stared at his hands; he would, totally. With the exact person who just asked him this but he could’t, could he? He was dying to say ‘yes, I would want to. With you.”  
   
Instead he played the indifference card and shrugged. “No, not now. Now I just want to focus on my career.”  
   
His teammate gave him a disappointed look but recovered quickly. “Yeah, you’re right. Now is time to focus on qualifying for the World Cup,” he still sounded sad, Luka’s heart twisted inside his ribcage. “Anyway, I’m bored. I’ll go find the others,” he walked towards the door and smiles at him. “See you later, captain.”  
   
—  
   
Luka shut the door and leaned against it. His friend was sitting at the table, his laptop on but he didn’t seem to be working on anything.   
   
“So, who is she?” he tried to make his tone light, to not let the hurt and jealousy seep into it.   
   
The man rose his head as if he just repaired on him standing there. “Hmm? Oh, she’s just someone I met a while ago,” he said, shrugging as if it wasn’t important. It was, though not for the reasons it should be.   
   
“And you like her,” he stated, though he meant it as a question. 

The other man shrugged. “I guess.”  
   
He huffed. “You guess?”  
   
His friend stood up and walked towards him, folded his arms and finally stopped when he was towering over him. “What is it to you anyway? It’s not strange for people to like other people, you know? I mean, we each have married friends and teammates . Or at least with partners, so why are you so surprised, Luka?”  
   
—  
   
“Are you alright?” he asked when he saw Ivan curled up in bed with the covers up, half his face was covered by them and his hair was sweaty and plastered to his head. 

When he didn’t answer, Luka walked towards his friend’s bed and sat on the edge.   
   
“Ivan?” he prompted softly.   
   
He noticed his friend shivering under the covers. Oh. “I- I have a fever and a headache,” his friend muttered, pulling the covers tighter around him.  
   
“Oh,” Luka’s heart clenched painfully. He touched Ivan’s forehead gently. “You’re burning up! You- you won’t be able to play tomorrow,” his worry increased.   
   
Ivan pulled the covers down a bit and stared at him; face flushed and eyes half-lidded. “Yes, I will play,” he said with a surprisingly firm tone. “Jusf give the pills time to make effect and-“ he cut himself off.   
   
“And what?” Luka asked, his hand pushing the hair away from his friend’s face.   
   
He hesitated for a moment before whispering, “and stay with me.”  
   
Luka’s breath caught in his throat, he knew he shouldn’t indulge him but on the other hand Ivan was sick and they had a game in a few hours so if this would help him then okay.   
   
He sighed and climbed into the bed behind him, which resulted on an awkward position because of their huge difference in height. So Ivan turned around and snuggled closer, Luka wrapped his arms around him tightly.   
   
“Sleep, number 7, we have a game tomorrow,” he whispered against Rakitić’s sweaty hair. When he heard him chuckle breathily his worry lessened a little. “Are you sure you’ll be alright to play?”  
   
Ivan nodded. “Yes, as long as you’re beside me, Luka.”  
   
   
Luka...  
Lu...  
   
“...ka, “ someone is shaking his shoulder. “You have to straighten your seat, plane’s about to land,” a female voice says.   
   
Awareness returns to him; he remembers the plane to Moscow, his flight companion and he realizes a sadness has taken ahold of his heart. He rubs the sleep away and does as she told him.   
   
“Are you alright?” she asks concerned.  
   
He nods and offers a shaky smile. “Yes, I’m just tired.”   
   
She stares at him for a while longer and finally nods. The flight attendants walk by, collecting the garbage and giving passengers indications.   
   
When the plane finally stops in front of the gate, he remembers he was going to ask her autograph.   
   
“Sorry to bother but before you leave could you... give me your autograph?” he asks sheepishly.   
   
She chuckles and smiles. “But of course! Do you have paper?” he gives her a small notebook. “And for whom will this be?” she asks with a quirked eyebrow.   
   
He thinks about it and decides to give her two names. “Can you make that two? One for Gareth Bale and Marcelo Vieria and the other for... for Ivan Rakitić.”  
   
She nods and writes the two autographs: a small; neat handwriting. “Now is my turn,” she says, returning his pad. “Can I ask for a selfie and an autograph?”  
   
“Sure,” he smiles.   
   
Now she is the one to give paper and when he’s written it she slings her arm around him and says “whiskey’ before snapping the photo. “Thank you, Luka Modrić.”  
   
When they have gathered their belongings and are ready to leave, she turns to give him a folded piece of paper.   
   
“Here, in case you ever want a stranger to listen to you, give me a call,” he takes it and stares at it for a second before looking back at her. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Luka Modrić and remember to fight for what you want.”  
   
And with a final smile, she walks away.   
   
***  
   
“So it’s official, you’re leaving to Italy,” Leo says neutrally as they eat breakfast.   
   
Cris nods carefully.   
   
Leo shakes his head. “Of course you had to go and steal the attention all for yourself.”  
   
Cris looks at him with a frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  
   
Leo snorts. “You’re kicked out of the World Cup and you can’t stand people talking about anything that isn’t you. So you go and make your announcement.”  
   
“Where the hell is this coming from, Leo?” Cris asks, annoyed.   
   
Leo points at the tablet in front of him. “You are all over the news. This is a time for the media and the public to focus on the Cup and the new talents that will come out from it,” he argues.   
   
Cris huffs and folds his arms. “Well, you should be thanking me I took all the attention away from Piqué and that stupid hand of his.”  
   
“Don’t bring Geri into this, he’s had enough already,” Leo says darkly.   
   
Cris shrugs. “Sorry but it’s true, because of him they were kicked out of the tournament. I’m surprised his teammates don’t hate him yet.”  
   
Leo glares at him. “Says the guy who is always trying to provoke fault or penalty in order to win the matches,” he grumbles.   
   
   
“At least I’ve won something with my National Team,” he shoots and it’s to kill because he knows as soon as he’s said it that he has hit exactly where he had aimed to hit and he can’t take it back.   
   
Leo’s eyes go blank, empty. He says nothing, just stands up and walks away and Cris is left there with his shame, feeling like the worst person in the whole world.   
—-  
   
Cris sits outside, thinking about how he’s going to miss this house that holds so many memories; parties, laughter, tears and fights... Love.   
   
Why must this be so hard? What did he do wrong for Leo to react the way he did? He had talked to him about a transfer before the World Cup started so he doesn’t understand why Leo reacted that way when the news came out.   
   
Whatever it is, he’ll find out sooner or later.   
   
•••  
   
“Luka! You’re finally here!” Rakitić exclaims excitedly. “We’ll be roomates!  
   
Luka smiles at him tiredly. “We’ve been rooming together since the World Cup started,” he points out.   
   
Ivan shrugs. “Yeah but this time we could’ve been parted.”  
   
Luka walks into the room and leaves his bag on a chair. “I met someone you like on the plane today,” he comments casually.   
   
Rakitić raises a brow. “There aren’t many people I like that you could’ve met here.”  
   
Luka smirks. “Would you bet on it?”  
   
Ivan looks at him for a moment and then shakes his head. “No, you look so sure, I rather not.”  
   
“Wise choice,” Luka says satisfied.   
   
He pulls his cellphone out and shows his friend the picture with the fencer. Ivan’s mouth slackens and he stares at the pretty smiling faces of his friend and the fencer he admires. “Where-?” is everything he manages to let out.   
   
“She sat next to me on the plane, apparently she also has a final to play. Or whatever it is called in fencing,” he explains simply, toeing his shoes off and walking into the bathroom. “Before I forget,” he comes back into the room. “She gave me an autograph for you,” he gives Ivan the piece of paper where she’d written on.   
   
“Thank you!” his friend hugs him tightly and Luka’s heart beats faster.   
   
“Yeah, no problem,” he whispers, hugging his friend back just as tight.   
   
•••  
   
Leo slams his head against the wall making a dull thud and a small yelp of pain. Why is he being so bitter all of a sudden? After all, Cris had told him about the possibility of a transfer and the offers made. So, why?  
   
Maybe it’s because he never really expected Cris to leave Real, he had threaten to do so in the past but never really did. Now, however, this is too real, too much too soon. He barely gets to see Cris living a few hours away, now that he’s moving to a different country... who knows if they can survive this. So maybe he is lashing out because he is scared.   
   
Scared that what he and Cris have might not survive this distance. Madrid and Barcelona they could handle. But Spain and Italy? Leo doesn’t know.   
   
* He should apologize to Cris but he’s never been good with words, that’s more Cris’ speciality.   
   
He sighs and slides down the wall until he is sitting on the floor and pulls his legs against his chest.   
   
Memories start to flood his mind and he just closes his eyes and lets them.   
   
\\-/  
   
First meetings  
Leo was somewhat terrified. This was his first game agains Manchester United; a top class British team.   
   
He knew he had nothing to fear, footbalistically talking, but still. Once he touched the ball he would work his magic but this was new to him, playing against a team he’d never played before is always scary.   
   
He tried and failed panicked. a little and at the end the match was lost, that Ronaldo guy was good. His teammates were exchanging handshakes and jerseys with the Manchester players, the fans were wildly cheering: his and that Ronaldo’s name- Cristiano, was it? Leo just remained out of sight, he’ll go beat himself later.   
   
“Hola,” a friendly voice said from somewhere.   
   
He hadn’t noticed the tall man approaching him.   
   
“Hola,” he waved shyly at him.   
   
“Are you the Leo they’re cheering for?” he asked, in spanish thankfully.  
   
He nodded. “You must be the Ronaldo, right?”  
   
The man smiled a bright smile that could blind anyone. “I am,” he stretched his hand. “Cris,” he introduced himself.   
   
Leo looked at his big palm and hesitantly shook it. “Leo,” he said.   
   
“Well, Leo,” he said while retrieving his hand and tugged at the hem of his jersey. “Customs are customs,” and took it off, revealing tan, well-formed abs that Leo was envious of.   
   
“Ugh,” he tugged his off, too and offered it. “Okay.”  
   
Cris accepted it with a grin and gave his in return. Leo puts Cris’ on and he felt as if he were swimming inside it. His didn’t quite fit Cris, though and he couldn’t help a little smirk.   
   
“Are you here alone because english is hard for you?” the man asked without mockery.   
   
“Sí,” he replied, bitting his lower lip. “I hope it’ll improve with time.”  
   
Cris shrugs. “Good you have spanish-speaking teammates, then.”  
   
Leo smiled and nodded. But was cut off before he could get another word out by Piqué calling him over. “Leo! What are you doing? Come on, lets go!”   
   
Cris grimaced a little but then smiled faintly and patted Leo on the back. “I’ll see you around, I hope,” and he winked at Leo before walking away wearing Leo’s unfitting jersey.   
   
-  
   
* The press went crazy, they couldn’t help themselves throwing speculations of a ‘new blooming rivalry since the times of Pelé and Maradona.’ Leo huffed and pushed the paper away.   
-I  
   
Ballon d’Or  
   
Leo hated this things; the fluncy, flashy fake smiles, the obnoxious luxury of all this, the hypocrisy, and mostly, he hated too much people and too much attention. But he was a candidate to win the Ballon d’Or so he had to be there.   
   
Cris is also there, which for some reason makes Leo’s stomach fill with butterflies. He looked amazing in that tux he was wearing, bright smile in place and hair perfectly styled. Leo, on the other hand, felt ridiculous in his tux and he felt his tie nearly choking but well.   
   
Cris smiled at him and waved from a distance, surrounded by people maybe he couldn’t shake off so Leo returned a shy smile and wave, feeling a little disappointed.   
   
* Cris won the award and, being the arrogant man he was, said he’d win it again (Leo didn’t doubt he would) and after smiling for the photos, ceremony was finally over.   
   
“Hey Leo!” someone called in spanish.   
   
He turned around and saw Cris jogging towards him, award tucked away somewhere.  
   
“Hey, Cris,” he greeted. “Congratulations for your award,” he smiled.   
   
"Thanks,” he hesitated for a moment, something that seemed so out of character for someone like Cris. “Would you maybe like to grab a drink?”  
   
They were staying at the same hotel, oddly enough, so Leo shrugged and agreed. “Why not?”  
   
Each had their own car so they met at the hotel’s bar; there were a few other people scattered along the room, chatting quietly while nursing drinks.   
   
Cris was sitting at the bar, suit jacket gone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows and looking as good as ever.   
   
Leo sat down next to him, having gotten rid of his tie a long time ago.   
   
“So,” he cleared his throat. “What’s the occasion?”  
   
Cris shrugged. “Get to know each other? The media is hinting at a rivalry between us and we don’t even know each other,” he said with amusement.   
   
Leo huffed a laugh. “So you only want to know me because the press is comparing us?” he raised an eyebrow.   
   
Cris called the bartender to order them drinks and then replied. “That’s part of it, yes. But it’s more personal interest than nothing else. Besides,” he took a sip of his drink. “If we are gonna follow the media’s game, we gotta at least know each other, don’t you think?” and he turned around to flash him that bright smile of his.   
   
Leo forced his eyes away and took a sip of his own drink. “I suppose you’re right.”  
   
They spent the next two hours talking about themselves; their families, their growing up back at their hometowns, Leo’s health issues and now his anxiety. Then it progressed to talk about their insecurities and doubts and fears and they ended up discovering they have more in common than what they first thought.   
   
“Well, as fun as this has been,” Cris said, stiffing a yawn, “we should go to sleep. I’d say we should do this again but ah, different countries and all. Anyway,” he placed a piece of paper in front of Leo. “Here, my phone number, you can use it so don’t be scared to,” he winked and just like that he stood and walked leisurley away. Leaving Leo there, open-mouthed with the paper in hand.   
   
—  
   
First Kiss  
   
Leo had just arrived from Brazil, humiliated and bone-tired and the only thing he wanted to do was sleep.   
   
CR: U back in Barça yet?  
   
That text banished any thought of sleep or curling in a dark corner and stay there forever.   
   
He smiled. LM: Just closed my house’s door, why?  
   
CR: You mind opening it again? ;)  
   
Leo’s heart skipped a beat. He was barefoot and with his hair all messed up, wearing an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. And Cristiano Ronaldo just hinted at being outside his house?!  
   
   
And yes, indeed. There he was, standing in Leo’s doorstep, looking as perfect as ever.   
   
“Hola Leo,” he greeted cheerly in spanish.   
   
“Cris,” Leo managed. “What are you doing here?” he asked, so stunned he was that he didn’t move away yet.   
   
Cris grinned. “Came to see how you were doing, of course. Cheer you up,” he gestured towards the house. “May I?”   
   
Leo pulled himself together and stepped aside to let him in.   
   
Leo smiled to himself before closing the door and motioning Cris to sit down. He sat on the couch and Leo curled up in the other end.   
   
“Is that why you’re really here?” he couldn’t help himself and ask.   
   
Cris sighed and rubbed his face with a hand. “Yes, really. Is that so hard to believe?” he gave Leo an inquisitive look that made him a bit uneasy.   
   
“Umm, it kinda is,” he answers.   
   
Their friendship hadn’t been easy, what with the fans making them rivals and the press feeding the fire. People just don’t see that they are just like them, people. And that despite playing for different teams, they can be friends.   
   
Cris scooted closer to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “How are you, Leo? Really,” he asked seriously.   
   
The wound of the loss still hurt, and what the press had been saying didn’t help matters.   
   
“Frustrated,” he replied honestly. “Why does it have to be so hard?”  
   
Cris shrugged. “I don’t know, I haven’t found an answer to that question.”  
   
“Cris,” Leo started softly. “Thank you for being here,“ he looked down to Cris’ lips and then back up to his eyes. “I just- If I don’t win the next Copa with Argentina-  
   
“Hey,” Cris stopped him, “you just arrived from winning second place at the World Cup. You should enjoy that,” he said, trying to cheer him up. Leo appreciated it.   
   
He shook his head and snorted. “Yeah, right, have you ever seen anyone be happy with silver medals? Would you be happy about it?” he asked with his eyebrow raised.  
   
Cris sighed. “Not at first, no. But maybe later, I’d appreciate having won something with my National Team,” he smiled a little.   
   
Leo looked at the silver medal and thought maybe Cris was right; later he might appreciate it. Much later.   
   
“Come on,” Cris shook his shoulder, “lets play FIFA,” he winked at him. “I can let you win, if you want.”  
   
Leo smiled, he liked Cris, really liked him. He appreciated what he was trying to do, just treating him like usually. He stood up to put the game on and hand Cris a remote.   
   
“Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “We both know I’m the one who always let you win.”  
   
They always play as if the game was real, always so competitive, sometimes even aggressive. Screaming at the screen whenever something doesn’t go the way they’d wanted. But in the end they always have fun and manage to get their minds distracted from whatever was worrying them. This time was no exception.   
   
“That was fun,” Cris sighed, slumping against the cushions. “And we don’t have to run one mile, if only it were like this in real life,” he said dreamly.   
   
“I rather have the real thing,” Leo turned the screen off and stood up. “Want something to drink?” he looked at Cris; slouched on his couch with half-lidded eyes and hair somewhat messed up, a shadow of stubble on his jawline and Leo just wanted him right then and there.   
   
“Hmmm?” Cris opened one eye. “Oh, yes. Water, please,” he stretched his arms above his head and stood in order to follow Leo into the kitchen.   
   
Leo poured a glass of water for Cris and another one for himself. Then there was this bizarre moment where they placed their glasses on the counter at the same time and caught each other’s eyes. It was an instant of electric connection and then they both looked away. Leo felt his cheeks flushing and his heart rate increased.   
   
“Leo,” Cris spoke softly and so close, Leo hadn’t notice him get closer. “Leo,” he said again, wrapping his arms around his waist.   
   
Leo was now breathing harder and when he lifted his head, there was Cris’ face, closer still. “Cris,” he whispered, if as a warning or an invitation. Both, maybe.   
   
Cris hummed and then he just leaned down and kissed him; a tentative, barely-there touch of lips before he put more pressure and Leo parted his lips instinctively, allowing Cris’ tongue entrance to explore his mouth. It felt so good, so right and Leo couldn’t do anything but give in. He wrapped his arms around Cris’ neck and returned the kiss. Cris moaned softly and then pulled him up and sat him on the counter, Leo gasped into his mouth.  
   
“Can- can we really do this, Cris? Should we do this?” he panted against the Portuguese’s lips.   
   
Cris cupped his face with his big, warm palms and smiled a little. “We can, we should. Most importantly, I want,” Leo rolled his eyes at that and Cris chuckled. “Look, I’m not just looking for something to pass the time. This is serious and I wanna try it. With you, if that’s what you want, too,” there’s trepidation in his tone and he’s got a guarded expression now, as he waited for Leo’s response.   
   
Leo looked down at his dangling feet, did he really want this with Cris? He found the answer was simple.   
   
He kissed Cris again.   
   
—  
   
First time Cris found him after an injury and first time he helped him through an anxiety attack.   
 

The game had been violent, players ruthlessly fighting for the ball, not caring about the faults or injuries. They all wanted to win. Leo, however, wanted to win without causing damage to other players. But as it was usual, players wanted to stop him from having the ball, even if that meant tackling him.   
   
Now, Leo was strong, he had muscles and he had built a resistance but he was still small, and bruised easily. He didn’t even see it coming; one time he was running with the ball and the next he was flying, or it felt like it, and had someone kick him. Referee whistled and granted a freekick. Some of his mates demanded a penalty but well, free kicks were good, too.   
   
He wasn’t sure how he managed to get up but he did, he avoided looking at anyone’s face as he limped into position. He breathed deeply and focused and kicked the ball.   
   
In. Goal. 3-2  
   
He doesn’t celebrate it: pain shot through his leg and his bruised side. The fans were cheering and his teammates tried to give him a pat or a hug but he only walked towards their coach and said he couldn’t continue, 10 more minutes, Leo the man tried to persuade him but he only shook his head no.   
   
He finished showering and laid down on a bench. His teammates didn’t even said a word to him when they came in, making plans for the night to celebrate. Leo ignored them, too.   
   
He curled into himself and thought about the game. It was just another El Clásico, nothing that special. He was used to other players trying to stop him from having the ball but this time it hurt. And Cristiano just stood there.   
   
The door opened and closed, Leo didn’t pay attention, might be one of his teammates that were still here.   
   
“Leo,” a voice he didn’t want to hear spoke. “Are you okay?”  
   
He scoffed. “Yeah, don’t you see? I’m fantastic,” tone ironic.   
   
He heard the other man sigh. “I’m sorry.”  
   
Leo incorporated as best he can. “For what? The idiotic teammates you have?” he spats.   
   
Cris sighed again and picked Leo up, he struggled to get back on his feet but Cris was stronger. “Come on, stop moving. I’ll take you to a hospital,” Cris said calmly.   
   
Leo shook his head vigorously. “No, not to the hospital,” he panicked.   
   
“Leo-“ Cris started to reason.   
   
Leo shook his head again. “Please, no.”  
   
Cris gave in and nodded. “Okay, okay. No hospitals.”  
   
Cris carried him to his car and placed him carefully on the passenger’s seat. “Where are you taking me, Cristiano?” he asked with more force than he intended.   
   
Cris looked taken aback by his outburst but recovered quickly. “My house.”  
   
“Why?” Leo was confused. “I just beat you.”  
   
Cris rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Leo, you’ve beaten me many times before and I doubt this will be the last,” he spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child.   
   
Leo folded his arms over his chest. “That doesn’t answer my question,” he sounded like a petulant child but he didn’t care, he was in pain.   
   
“Leo,” Cris turned to look at him, he really looked tired; eyes a bit hazy, hair less shiny and perfect as it normally did. “I care about you, let me help you.”  
   
“You care about me,” he said in disbelief.   
   
“Yes, at least more than your teammates do.”  
   
Leo didn’t answer and they remained in silence for the rest of the ride.   
   
Cris was surprisingly gentle when he was mending Leo’s bruises and injured leg.   
   
“Thanks,” he grumbled.   
   
“No problem.” Cris replied gloomily. “I’ll get you a glass of water,” he stood up and walked towards the kitchen, leaving Leo there on the couch, feeling miserable.   
   
Ever since they kissed somehow, things had seemed less easy: media were still comparing them and making them seem like rivals, fans were even more believing of what the media said. Like when someone leaked, (lied) about Cristiano calling him ‘mofo’ behind his back. Cris was furious and said he’d never say something like that about him and Leo believed him. But then Cris just... retreated, took a step back and just plainly started ignoring Leo. And it sort of stung.   
   
When the couch beside him dipped, he turned around to look at Cris, who was holding a glass of water for him.   
   
“Leo,” he spoke softly. “I’m sorry, alright? I know I’ve been... distant and it’s not fair, specially after I told you I wanted to try this with you,” he sighed.  
   
Leo stared at the floor while fretting with his hands. He didn’t know what to do or say, everything hurt and he was so exhausted. He just wanted to sleep and sort this all out later but he knew he had to talk with Cris now before all this went to shit.  
   
He took a deep breath and started to talk. “Look, I do want to try this with you, okay? But if you think I’m gonna stick around and stand your indiference you’re wrong. I mean it, Cristiano, if you are in, you are in. I’m not your play-toy for you to use and discard whenever you want,” he gives him a look full of intent and waited for the other’s response.   
   
Cris carded a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly. “You’re right, Leo. I do want this to work, I’m gonna be there for you, through it all.”  
   
He smiled and Leo gave a shy smile in response, heart pounding fast inside his chest. He yawned suddenly, breaking the moment, making Cris chuckle.  
   
“Come on, lets get you to bed. You look as if you were going to drop dead at any minute,” he stood up and Leo was about to do the same when Cris bent down and picked him up.  
   
He was too tired to protest so, for this time, he let it go and snuggled deeper into Cris’ arms. A content smile on his face.  
   
— In the fic’s timeline, this memory is before their first kiss.   
   
Leo was hyperventilating. They’d lost against Atlético. And he had done nothing. They’ll all blame him, they always did.  
   
Leo couldn’t breathe.   
   
He was a failure. He had four Ballon D’Or and at that moment he didn’t know why. He didn’t deserve them. He wasn’t the best. He- he-  
   
He felt as if he were falling down a bottomless blackhole.   
   
He started pulling at his hair, not aware of the force, nor the pain it caused him. He was just so frustrated...  
   
A ring. Then another ring.   
   
What was that  
   
A third ring.   
   
Cris’ ringtone.   
   
Leo’s shaking hand pulled the cellphone out his pocket.   
   
“H- hello?” he said, voice shaky.  
   
“Leo? Oh my god, are you alright?” Cris’ concerned voice came through to him.   
   
“C- Cris? I can’t-“ he couldn’t breathe.   
   
“Okay, okay. Put the phone on speaker,” he instructed. Leo barely managed not to drop the phone while trying to do so. “Is it done? Okay, okay amor. Pull your knees up and lower your head against them,” his voice was firm but calm as he guided Leo through it. “Take deep breaths, Leo come on. Deep breaths,” his voice was soothing as he kept saying that. 

Leo did as he was told; deep breaths. In. Out. In again and out again. Deep breaths.   
   
Slowly he was able to do it, to calm himself and get air into his lungs. Slowly, his chest stopped hurting.   
   
“Leo?” Cris was making an effort not to sound frantic. “Are you feeling better?”  
   
He picked up the phone, getting out of the speaker mode. “Yes, thanks,” he muttered, a bit steadier. “Where did you learn to do that?”  
   
The silence at the other end of the line made him think Cris might have hung up. Until he heard an exhalation. “I did some research... just in case.”  
   
Leo’s heart skipped three beats. “Did you really do that? Just because of me?” he added as an after thought.   
   
Cris snorted. “Yes, I did. I told you I care about you, didn’t I?”  
   
Leo smiled. Cris and him had been hanging out and talking a lot, getting to know each other, growing their friendship despite what the rest of the world thought them to be.   
   
Leo’s feelings for Cris had also been growing, that was something he had tried to quench down so it wouldn’t grow anymore but if there’s something you can’t do with feelings is, well, get rid of them. 

“Cris,” he started hesitantly, bitting his lip. “Thank you, for helping me.”  
   
He heard a soft chuckle. “It’s no problem, Leo. Look, would you mayhe want to... have dinner with me sometime?”  
   
Now Leo’s heart did a major back-flip, this he wasn’t expecting. “Yeah, I would like that,” but a part of him, the reasonable one, told him that would never happen. They lived in different cities and their schedules, life in general, were so busy. But still.  
   
   
So it’s an overstatement to say that Leo was surprised when a week later, Cris was there ready to take him to dinner. They had a wonderful time; full of laughter, smiles an good food. The best part though, was Cris being there.   
   
And then... well, then...  
   
   
The First Time Leo Comforted Cris  
   
Was the second anniversary of the man’s father’s death. 

Cris was not feeling in his right mind. He wasn’t playing as he should have been playing. His mind was plagued with memories of his father’s alcoholic rages, his violence and at the end, his death. He hated how people got transformed by the drink, what that seemingly inoffensive liquid did to the psyche. 

At that moment though, he hated himself for letting it distract him from the game. An important game. A game that they did end up winning but not thanks to him.   
 

He felt so angry and so sad, so helpless. His teammates knew by then that when he was in that mood they should just let him be for a while so they left him alone in the lockers, saying the place they’d be at in case he wanted to join them later.   
   
When he was sure there was no one left, he allowed himself the tears.   
   
   
“I hate you,” he muttered. “I hate you for what you did to mamma, what you did to me, to us. I hate you for what you let the alcohol do to you,” he cried with such rage, sobs wrecking his body, hands pulling at his hair. “I hate you.”  
   
“Cris,” a soft, familiar voice drifted into his awareness making him start.   
   
“What are you doing here?” he asked harshly, angrily rubbed at his eyes and tried to quench the tears away.   
   
“I’m sorry, I just wanted to see how you were doing,” the Argentinian explained, not phased by Cris’ outburst.   
   
“Well, you’ve seen it now. You can leave,” he said, his back turned towards Leo.   
   
But instead of walking out the door,the annoying bastard walked around and... hugged him. Hugged. Him.   
   
Yes, they had a tentative, pretty premature friendship; they talked on the phone and texted, sometimes when they were in the same city, went for a drink. But that was it. For the media they pretended they didn’t like each other, they were civil but that was it. Still, this was like crossing a line.   
   
Still. The smaller man hugged him, even if Cris didn’t return the gesture immediately.   
   
But he was in pain, this hurt so much and he longed for some comfort. He had a bunch missed calls from his mother that he would return later. For now, he gave into the pull and circled his arms around Leo’s waist, buried his face into his neck and allowed himself to show vulnerability, he cried on Leo’s shoulder until there were no tears left and his eyes stung.   
   
He lost track of time; he just stayed in Leo’s hold and let the man comfort him for a while. Leo rubbed soothing circles on Cris’ back and petted his hair, that was now curling at the tips and he took a deep breath before pulling away.   
   
He exhaled deeply and rubbed his face, sniffing. “Listen,” he started to say before Leo rolled his eyes and interrupted him.   
   
“Yeah, yeah, I won’t speak of this to anyone, no need for threats,” he frowned.   
   
Cris shook his head. “That’s not what I was going to say, I know you aren’t the kind of person to go ventilating secrets,” Leo snorted, Cris went on. “I was gonna apologize for lashing out... before. I’m-I’m not used to this,” he gestured between them. “So, I’m sorry and... thank you,” he gave Leo a small smile.   
   
Leo returned it. “Anytime,” and Cristiano knew he meant it.   
   
End of Flashbacks.   
   
Leo sighs. Cris has always been there for him, has always trusted him, supported him. Now it’s Leo’s turn, he should have been more understanding and supportive. Cris would never do anything to hurt him.   
   
He takes a deep breath and goes looking for his lover.   
   
•  
   
Cris is still sitting by the pool when Leo finds him. He toes his shoes off and sits next to the taller man.   
   
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Cris turns to look at him, mouth open as if to protest, so Leo raises a hand to halt him. “Wait, let me say this. I’m sorry I was such an ass about you moving clubs. You... you’ve always been there for me, supporting me. And... and you deserve the sane from me,” he sighs and stares at the pool’s water. “I guess I’m just afraid, you know? That with you moving away this won’t work anymore,” he says under his breath.   
   
“Leo,” his partner speaks equally as soft, he takes his hand and squeezes. “It’ll work, we’ve made it work for this long. We can make it work, I’m moving, yes but I’m not leaving you. This will be good for us, you’ll see,” he turns to look at Cris, who has a small, reassuring smile on his face.   
   
Leo isn’t that sure, he wishes he could have Cris’ confidence but well, he trusts the man.   
   
“I just want to say that... that I’ll stand by you, Cris. I support your choice, I don’t like it but I support you,” he manages a weak smile.   
   
Cris chuckles and leans in to press a gentle kiss to Leo’s lips. He wraps his arms around the smaller man and pulls him close. “It’ll all work out, I promise,” he whispers.   
   
Leo just kisses him again.


End file.
